(The following is an excerpt from my eternal work-in-progress, Reefer Dadness (c). rc) On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was on the commuter train to Hoboken, rolling through the New Jersey Meadowlands when I heard a woman scream. I turned my head to the left and, behind me, saw her aghast, looking out of the window on our right. I wheeled my head around and saw the last lick of the fireball flame climbing up to the top of the north tower of the World Trade Center. The fireball quickly disappeared and billows of grey smoked and bright fire began

Shortly after the Apollo 11 astronauts walked on the moon, each one returned to their respective hometown to be hailed as a hero:  Neil Armstrong went to Columbus, Army brat Michael Collins was welcomed in his adopted New Orleans, and Buzz Aldrin, who in time would prove to be the coolest astronaut of them all, came back home to Montclair, New Jersey, two miles northwest from where I was born. I showed up early and waited for the advance team to arrive. I talked my way into the press conference by flashing a few tearsheets from my high school newspaper;